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Isabel's War. Lila Perl
Читать онлайн.Название Isabel's War
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781939601377
Автор произведения Lila Perl
Жанр Учебная литература
Издательство Ingram
“I’m not talking to you,” I mumble to my mother as we follow Helga and Mrs. F. out of the store. They are carrying a number of purchases for Helga including, of course, the dungarees that I couldn’t fit into. “You had no business giving them to her.”
“I didn’t,” my mother protests. “When she saw me carrying them, she asked if she could try them on. What was I supposed to say? Why are you holding such a grudge against that poor girl? What did she ever do to you?”
I take a vow of silence where my mother is concerned and we spend the rest of the afternoon traipsing around town. Mr. F. joins us and goes to the blood bank to donate blood for the troops. Mrs. F. and my mother go into a yarn store and buy olive-colored wool to knit scarves and mittens and socks for the soldiers. Mrs. F. also buys extra knitting needles and promises to teach me to knit as soon as we get back to Moskin’s.
My mother suggests we get some supplies from the Red Cross for making up first-aid kits. We’ll roll bandages and stuff during our vacation at Shady Pines and then return the kits when they’re ready for use in case of an enemy attack at home or on the front lines. Finally we get into Mr. F.’s car with all our packages and head back to Moskin’s.
For the rest of the afternoon, Mrs. F. and I sit under a tree and she teaches me how to cast the yarn onto my two long knitting needles and how to knit and purl, the two basic stitches. I’m making, Mrs. F. tells me, a scarf for some G.I., a soldier in the U.S. Army, who will one of these days invade Europe and take it back from Hitler and the Nazis, who have been grabbing everything they can from Russia to France.
With all the stitches I’m dropping and all the help I need from Mrs. F., it’s just as well that an invasion of Europe is going to take a couple of years at least. I’m terrible at the “womanly arts” and I’m afraid it’s going to be a very long war.
Meantime, my mother and some of the other ladies are sitting nearby rolling bandages for the Red Cross. Helga, after her shopping spree in Harper’s Falls, has of course been sent to our room to rest.
“Helga, Helga, psst.”
It’s late that night and I’m dreaming of an endless skein of olive-colored wool that is threatening to strangle me, when my sleep is pierced by a soft whistle-like sound. I have no idea what time it is, only that it’s dark out and that I seem to have been asleep for hours. As I toss over onto my right side, I hear the sound again, followed quickly by an almost inaudible “Shh.”
Something is going on, and I instantly smother the instinct to jump up and make inquiries.
“Helga, come on out. Can’t you?”
It’s the first voice again, and it seems to be coming from the window that is almost directly above my head, which looks out onto the pine forest behind the annex.
“Ach, nein. It’s too dangerous.”
Helga’s voice is so close that it almost feels as though she’s in bed with me. Actually, she must be crouching on the floor just beneath the window between our two beds.
“Then I’ll come in. Is she fast asleep? Is the door open?”
“Nein, nein, you cannot. Wait, I come out. I meet you in the back.”
I don’t dare move. I can hear Helga softly rustling into some sort of garment and tiptoeing out the front door, which she gently closes.
There’s only a narrow thorny space between the back of the annex and the pinewoods, where Roy has somehow managed to get to our window. Where will they go now...will Helga join him near the window or will they go deeper into the forest? Or do they have some other place for a rendezvous?
My heart is pounding as I crawl out of bed, listening for the sound of their voices. I peer out the rear window...nothing. I even open the door a crack. No one is in sight. Perhaps I was only dreaming that Helga left our room in the middle of the night to be with Roy. But I give Helga’s bed a poke and sure enough, it’s empty.
Time passes. I’m so flustered at catching Helga playing Juliet to Roy’s Romeo that I don’t know how I feel about my discovery. In one way it’s exciting...a mystery. She’s only known him one day and already there’s a certain intimacy between them. What has drawn them together so strongly that he would sneak back to Moskin’s in the dark to be with her?
But while I’m looking for answers, I’m also having envious thoughts toward Helga. I’m even going so far as to wonder if I’m going to tell on her. Does she have to have everything...a great figure, stunning hair and eyes, the concern and sympathy of all the guests at Moskin’s, tossed kisses from Harry the waiter and hot-eyed stares from the busboys, my dungarees, and Roy?
I get back into bed and crawl under the covers, keeping my ears open for Helga’s return. I’ve decided I’ll play dead when she comes back and see if I can read any signs of what’s going on when I see her in the morning.
Did I fall asleep again? I must have. Because the next thing I know I’m awakened by a funny squeaking sound. There are tiny animals, field mice especially, that easily find their way into the rooms at Moskin’s.
I sit up in bed and reach for the fly swatter that hangs on a hook above me. It’s still completely dark out. How am I going to shoo the creature out, whatever it is, without knowing where it is? I’m just about to reach for the flashlight under my pillow, when I hear the squeaking again. This time, though, it’s followed by a sniffle. Squeak...sniffle. Squeak...sniffle. Squeak...sniffle. There’s a rhythm that isn’t exactly mouse-like.
I get out of bed, pad across the short distance to Helga’s bed, and give it a poke, like the last time, but maybe just a little bit harder.
There’s a shriek. Helga sits up in bed.
“Oh,” I gasp. “It’s you.”
Helga’s voice is throaty. “Ach, Isabel, I’m sorry if I’ve waked you.”
I can tell for sure now that she’s been crying or at least weeping.
“Waked me. Well, not exactly. Um, is anything wrong?”
Helga’s long hair is tangled around her face and chest. I can see that much in the dark. And her face is pale. “Only my leg aches a bit,” she explains. “I went to the bathhouse to bathe it with cool water. And also,” she adds, “to use the toilet.”
Aha, I think to myself. So that’s where Helga and Roy had their romantic rendezvous tonight, in the rough wooden building that is used by the annex guests. In a flash I can see them standing together in the damp-smelling shower room with its handful of stalls and its slimy floor and walls. If that’s really where they hid out during Roy’s visit, that’s pretty pathetic.
On the other hand, I’m burning with curiosity. Did they just sit on the flimsy wooden stools and talk to each other? Did Roy hold Helga’s hand and stroke her face? Did he embrace her; did he kiss her? Was Helga already crying when they parted?
Will I ever know? When I look down at Helga again, she’s thrown her head back on the pillow, one arm is flung across her face, and she’s as silent as if she’s fallen into a deep sleep.
Every morning after breakfast, my father and some of the other male guests at Moskin’s walk into Harper’s Falls to pick up their newspapers, so they can keep up with the war news. They call this exercise their “constitutional.” Afterwards they return to Moskin’s and sit on the porch all morning discussing the latest reports and chewing on their cold cigar butts from the night before.
I’m sitting nearby struggling with my knitting because it’s too cool to go for a swim this early. “Leave it to the Marines,” my father rumbles with an